


Oh, Moon of Takodana

by Filigranka



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Black Comedy, Drabble, Ficlet Collection, Gen, Multi, Original Character(s), Politics, Worldbuilding, well. scraps of politics and worldbuilding
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-15
Updated: 2019-04-25
Packaged: 2019-08-02 10:51:43
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 4,512
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16303778
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Filigranka/pseuds/Filigranka
Summary: Collection of ficlets and drabbles. Written for various tumblr prompts. I just want to have them in one place.





	1. Oh Moon of Takodana (Show Us the Way to the Next Little Credit)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [callmelyss](https://archiveofourown.org/users/callmelyss/gifts), [Bazylia_de_Grean](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bazylia_de_Grean/gifts), [TobermorianSass](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TobermorianSass/gifts).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For callmelyss. 
> 
> _for the drabble meme: bonifate? Maratelle and Hux’s mother, please, and not /too/ dark?_
> 
> Florentine’s Hux’ mother, because I named her for my long fic and then I got attached, like a fool. And I always steal the titles.
> 
> A-ah, and nibi, whom I love <3, checked it, under the pressure of time, so all mistakes are on me.

 

They have known DJ since – as Maratelle usually puts it, smiling widely, making the words long, sweet and sticky like a syrup – foreveeer, huuun, foreeever. Which means: DJ’s known them since forever, too, and now is eyeing the vial in Florentine’s palm warily, probably recalling everything he drank today, everything he was careless enough to touch with his skin. Not much; he’s a careful man. But “not much” was enough.

‘Really, you could just ask. You know how I ad-dore you b-both,’ he says finally. Wise choice. He’s known of them. And Florentine is known in some circles of her poisons, antidotes, healing decocts. The one she put onto the edge of DJ’s cards – he didn’t stop himself from kissing them “for luck” – is rather slow working and painless. DJ is an acquaintance, after all. And she’s sure he will get his blood check after this, he will notice her… politeness.

Maratelle slides credit chip across the table. There’s no need to make an enemy of DJ over this, and while he will understand the threat as a security measure – understand and laugh it off during their next meeting, ‘you got me this time, ladies’ – he won’t forgive them if forced to sell intel too cheaply.

It’s also Marati who asks questions, her voice steady, changing between all steel and business and the intimate geniality. Access codes. Army hierarchy. Organisation of the work on the destroyers’ decks. Technology used. Population. Hyperspace tracker – oh, hyperspace tracker is big, it could change the whole transport and insurance business, even Florentine notices and the vial disappears in her sleeve for a moment, until DJ rolls his eyes and admits he might have, turning it off, copied a part or two of the programming code. He will give it to t-them, sure, with d-d-discount even.

Florentine wouldn’t be able to trust her voice, really. She would cut all of this charade, demands to know everything about – about – just everything, including the length of his eyelashes. Is he well. Does he smiles. Everything.

DJ and Maratelle lose themselves in the technical and logistic details. He seems content enough, albeit still careful, trying to guess their intentions and positions. ‘I know much of your money blew up with Hosnian Prime.’ His smile is more tired than comforting; a play at honesty. ‘Everybody’s did. Such terrible losses.’

Maratelle of course nods, leads him astray, asks questions after questions, all of them rational and predictable. Military. Intel. Psychological profile of the high command, would you kindly, you’ve an eye for these little personality quirks and details…

Florentine digs the nails of her free hand into her palm. Not very stupid – good. Cruel – eh, who isn’t, these days? Inexperienced – fuck, lack of experience kills quickly in this galaxy. Fanatical – bad omen, but that much she, everybody, already knew.

DJ finishes, giving Maratelle some blueprints of this ship he got from First Order – oh, and they paid in cash, not virtual credits, you know what this suggest, r-right? the independent source of the… and oh, yes, this explains so much, doesn’t it? how they were able to shoot at one of the economical centres without destroying their own financial stability – and Florentine throws him the vial. He catches it with ease, smiling lazily. Probably assumes she has some additional portion with her – and he’s right. They wouldn’t risk killing him. Marati would find this wasteful and Florentine… Eh, she learnt long ago how to tell the rational safety measures from the reckless panic.

And yet a shiver runs down her spine when they’re saying goodbyes at the door – with the whole masquerade of kissing the air, hugging, DJ bowing and jokingly trying to steal their rings while doing so – and DJ locks his eyes with hers for a moment too long, smiles knowingly and whispers, in this warm, jovial tone of a conman:

‘Friends are the t-true happiness and stren-g-gth in our business, aren’t t-they? And how lucky I am to have the privileg-ge of being the friend-d of such a… wonderful, incredible, rare kind of women.’


	2. Echolalia

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Amandation: act of sending away or dismissing /or/ Misqueme: to displease; to offend + Leia?_
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> Ha, I managed both, I think. I searched the web, but couldn’t find English translation for “echolalia” as poetic device, not medical term. But the medical term fits, too, and I like this word.

 

 

New Republic destroys the First Order’s fleet with a ceremony, all the remaining higher officers of this bloody organisation forced to stand and watch. It’s not justice, but it’s close enough, thinks Leia.

They dare—the younger ones, those who grew up on these decks— to feel. Leia doesn’t shield herself from their emotions. She’s the one who wants them to watch. Actions and consequences. It’s only fair.

But she  _remembers_ —despair, the whole universe crumbling before her eyes, rage, sudden exhaustion—and when  _Finalizer_ blows up and Hux tries to look away, she almost tells guards to let him.


	3. What’s in a Name (A meat)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Cannibalism.** But it happens behind the scenes, like in ancient play - it’s all very OTT and ancient-style - and the whole thing is… quite light in a tone, I think? Grotesque macabre.

 

Papa sighed heavily. ‘Maratelle, my star, I think you might overdo it…’

Maratelle opened her eyes. Widely, to make them dry and teary.

‘Count Hassil offended Florentine! She’s a family now!’

‘And a duel would be in order. But this—‘

‘I’m an unconventional woman. One of a kind. I like my revenge custom-designed, too.’

‘You sent slicers to steal the remnants of their ancestors and then feed them to Hassils at the banquet.’

‘You yourself told me the revenge’s an art.’ She smiled and kissed his hand, always a dutiful daughter. ‘He’d offended Florentine’s family — so he chocked on his own.'


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Three sentences meme, Leia&Luke + hope.

In the end, she fights for Ben because of Luke. Luke, who appeared on the Death Star and gave her life instead of an execution; Luke, who came back from the second Death Star alive and told her “See? There was light in him!”; Luke, who told her that no one is ever really gone. Except, of course, that he is gone now,  _really_  enough, and this, this—this tired hope, worn to the bone—it’s all that’s left of him.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Three sentences meme again. To quote B. _Leia &Hux because you like them (and teacup)_

‘I hope you like it here; after all, it’s—’ Leia takes a sip from the teacup, ‘—the biggest cage you’ve ever had.’ 

‘Not glided enough,’ Hux snarls and immediately knows he’s made a mistake, because she smiles and pushes a pad across the table, with the Force, not to break the tea set. 

‘Oh, you know how it goes between friends, a gift for a gift; design something nice for me,  _boy_ , introduce me to your other friends, and I’ll see what I can do to provide my dear guest with his favourite—’ he hates the way a corner of her mouth lifts, hates this tea set, completely white, but full of flowing, complicated lines, with little chaotic imperfections which couldn’t have been made by droids, ‘—kitsch—camp aesthetics.’


	6. Blow a Candle, Start a Storm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, I’m trying to do starwarsadventcalendar (on tumblr; tumblr is falling down, so I'm archiving everything) systemically. Or rather: had plans of doing it systemically. They ended in me starting on 10th and with the prompt from the 6th, ghost stories. Typical.
> 
> Mmmm - Alderaan, more or less two-three generations after? It’s not trying to pretend it’s not catharsis, but eh, some themes are, unfortunately, pretty universal.
> 
> I still think it’s not only strange, but a little terrifying everybody at Disney’s OK-ed the whole idea of new Alderaan in this form.  
> nibinix gave it a look and helped me with the typos, articles and the rest of the grammar gang - but I gave them very little time, so if you find some mistakes just let me know and I'll correct them.

 

Seehna is eight and sometimes she sees the Imperial Soldiers. The ghosts. At night, mostly. Hears their whispers. Some of them are the same age as her cousins, and some are older, like her parents, and some are really old, like her uncle Gavin. They just – hang there or walk, march, run, blurred like an afterimages or shadow put on shadow, sudden thickening of the darkness. They whistle some Imperial songs or laugh, or shout orders with this Imperial accent which makes her shiver instinctively, just like her grandma does.  
  
Seehna is a well-educated girl, like all Alderaans. She knows the myths and legends of many worlds already. She wonders if they’re eternally lost, because they have no cemetery. If they’re tied to their deathplace. If her loved ones, mother and father and siblings of grandma and grandpa, and aunt Vielle’s oldest brother, and all others, wander across the ramble she sees from the windows, too.  
  
‘They’re not,’ said cousin Mauric. ‘We mourn and remember them, and lit lights for them, even for those families who were wiped out completely. Our thoughts and memory are guiding them through darkness, into the light. Like the Force.’  
  
This makes Seehna wonders if she “has” the Force, like princess Leia. It would explain the ghosts, at least. Perhaps they want her to guide them. It must be terribly boring and lonely, to eternally march through corridors and scare people with your Imperial accent.  
  
She told it her family, once, at breakfast, when she was little and stupid. Well, not all of it, of course – she wasn’t that stupid. But enough.   
  
There was a moment of suffocating silence. Then her mother said ‘You have no Force, darling, just an… overreacting imagination,’ and Bella, who was Seehne’s crazy cousin, but old enough to be called “aunt”, added ‘Perhaps, actually, it’s not good idea to feed the children all these historic holos and stories about the dead. I told you and told you, it does more harm than good, it buried us alive, and now it buries the kids…’ and then grandma started shouting that it’s enough, Bella should watch her mouth, nobody will forbid her from remembering her own dead, her own pain in her own home, and Seehna is, indeed, just a child with heart too soft and will too weak, swayed by some fantasies, and then she began to cry, talking about her beloved mother and brother, and father, and her family home she would never see again, how beautiful it had been, how happy, and didn’t she had right to at least told the truth and call murder a murder, atrocity an atrocity, murderers – murderers? Did the victims have no rights at all – and Seehna was sick with guilt, because fault was, of course, hers, hers and her stupid imagination.  
  
‘It’s not the Force. Seehna is a child, it’s normal for her to have… vivid nightmares,’ announced the grandpa finally, and this closed the subject. ‘If she had the Force, she would see her relatives, the victims, not their murderers. Don’t worry, darling, the Imperial soldiers… They had no souls, they were disintegrated at their deaths, as it is with all very, very bad people. They can’t haunt you, can’t harm you. And I don’t want to hear a word about them in my presence anymore, right, sweetheart? Promise me.’  
  
Seehna is very well-mannered, responsible girl, like all Alderaanian children are. She knows when to be quiet and solemn, when to cry, what songs and poems speaks by rote at parties, that uncle Kyar will tell her she looks exactly like Jaemie, his mother and grandma Filla will claim she is a perfect image of her aunt, Grallina. By eight, Seehna also knows which subjects have to be avoided at all costs and she will never make a mistake such as that one at breakfast again.  
  
Sometimes she sees and hears ghosts. She thinks of all people and places lost, then, of all half-forgotten poems, repeats the verse after verse, name after name, till she seethes.


	7. In a Plain Sight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes little me strays too far while writing for prompts/exchanges and cannot be sure prompt-givers would be happy with the execution, and then I put the fic-crumbs into the drawer. 
> 
> But hey, I have collection for drabbles&similar misc. right? So if something is already written, why waste it. ;)
> 
> Krennic/Cassian implied below.

I

 

Things Cassian probably isn’t going to tell Jyn: he was a part of the team investigating her father’s projects for a long time.

Things Cassian definitely isn’t going to tell Jyn: once, he slept with Orson Krennic as a part of the investigation. It wasn’t planned: they didn’t even know director Krennic preferred men, Cassian was just a... failsafe measure for the female Twi’lek agent supposed to do the job. And then, when Krennic’s eyes fell on him, he just—acted. Mission above all.

Things Cassian definitely isn’t going to tell _anybody_ : it wasn’t bad. Not. at. all.

 

 

II

 

‘Ah, we meet again, pretty boy.’

So much of Cassian’s hopes Krennic wouldn’t remember him.

‘I’m so sorry I didn’t recognise you on Scarif, but you see, the battle was a little distracting.’

Cassian prefers to not think what would happen—what would be said—if Orson _did_ recognise him. It’s enough that he has him now, beaten, chained, defeated.

‘Not a word? There’s this cliché about better use of one’s mouth, but this time I want nothing more than to hear you talking.’ Orson leans down, his lips caress Cassian’s earlobe. ‘I might bring you a quick death, after.’


	8. Desert’s Nights Are Cold

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jango/Shmi.

‘I can kill your owner and buy you a new identity.’ After sex, Jango’s voice was almost gentle. ‘We can escape together.’

 _What then_ , Shmi thought bitterly _, perhaps you wouldn’t mean it, but you’d just become my next owner_.

‘I told you dozen times already, I don’t like a bloodshed.’

‘I kill for living, Shmi, and I value you more then the credits. You know that.’

She shivered. _Always_ _tell them what they want to hear._

‘But I don’t want you to kill for me. I want you to live and remember me, and come back here now and then.’

 


	9. Dream a Little Dream

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I planned to give them to you, C., like, in last December, as the part of the exchange, and continuation of Maratelle-Hux' Mother's shards, but then things happened.
> 
> Billion thanks and hearts for sillygoose for beta! <3 <3 <3

‘I’m going to kill Brendol. And it will be drawn-out and very messy… Fu–Damn!’ Maratelle’s voice broke.

She risked a glance at her hands, lying in the sink, drenched in antiseptic detergent. Even through the oily yellow liquid she could see they were already turning red. And starting to really, really hurt.

She gulped. Her throat still felt dry and tight. Florentine threw her an apologetic glance.

‘I’m sorry. But they’re surely gonna look at our palms, and—'

‘I know. Don’t be.’ Maratelle’s tone was calm now, her shoulders—straightened. Nobody would say she disgraced her family. ‘I’m grateful for your loyal—friendship. I’m just worried about time.’ Nobody would say her voice so much as shivered because of the _men business_. Nobody. Never.

For pity’s sake, she had survived the Clone Wars as a child. Today, she was a grown woman. She would survive these... new inconveniences.

But she wasn’t planning to forget them.

‘I’m going to force the whole bottle of this down his throat,’ she announced solemnly; this image and focus on modulating her voice distracted her from the pain. ‘He’ll die vomiting his own blood, and I’ll laugh while his organs are burning – melting – dissolving away.’ She closed her eyes. Her great-great-grandmother was supposedly a witch or something. All old families had such legends: a witch, a pirate, a gentlebeing-thief, a smuggler. Maratelle had never before wished so much for them to be true, to lend her words the power of the curse.  ‘I swear.’

 

II

 

Such a pitiful sight. Those little murders, rendered to the bunch of lost kids by one man’s cowardice. Those children, their eyes so glossy and empty, and afraid now.

Left behind. Maratelle tightened her lips. How she hated the cowards. And so, she decided, she must have hated Brendol, always. Everything else was just—a mirage. She had been lying this whole time, for sure.

The children recognised her. Good.

‘I’m going to blow up the east wing and the archive, and our home,’ she told them. ‘To save the Academy’s secrets from the Rebels’ dirty hands. Are you going to help me?’

She couldn’t care less about the politics, she just needed to make sure no files about her would get into the hands of the new government. But she knew what a model Imperial citizen should be feeling.

And sure enough, for those kids, the order, the mission, the clear, military objective—protecting the Empire—still meant everything. They nodded. She smiled, gentler than they probably had seen in years. All children, even soldiers, needed their mothers. Ha, soldiers the most. If they brought her home—if she brought them home, nobody would ask where she found them. “War orphans,” she would say. This would be true, right?

And good, loyal assassins were so hard to find in this economy.

‘Then come with me. Now, we need explosives, then a big, nice fire, and we need to grab some false papers in the meantime, and then... Then I’ll think what to do next. How to escape and fight the Rebellion from within.’

She was going to bring them home and teach them how to fight battles with smiles and perfectly held silver spoons, back straight, arms kept close to the body, kind smile on the lips, meaningless toasts—and the taste of expensive wine, not blood and sweat, as a sure sign of victory.

But now she needed to survive. And they needed to survive, too, survive and become this glorious future she’d dreamt about as a girl. Everything her parents wanted. Heirs, children, their family name escaping the doom put on their heads by the Clone Wars and the death of her two brothers.

‘Come with me.’ She used the same tone Brendol had used, but made the cadence of her voice slower, gentler perhaps. Waved her hand, not exactly extending it to them, but almost, before gesturing to the corridor. ‘Time’s running out.’


	10. Going Green

 

‘Need a hand?’

Cilla turned her head, already smiling. Kassir didn’t disappoint her – his face was a pretty mixture of business nonchalance and guarded, politely half-hidden desire. He might be a good candidate for her next partner.

And he understood that it was very impolite to leave a woman to take care of the dead body all by herself. Especially when said body belonged to a man who had loved wine and carbohydrates much too much.

‘A hand? Not necessarily, unless it’s Skywalker’s one, I’d love to do some research on it... But I might like your help.’

Kassir’s smile just widened. She took a step back and he came to her, took the body to the lifting pod. AI beeped confirmation, and another lover of Cilla rode to his fate.

‘You’re following him?’ Kassir raised his eyebrow.

‘I’m his partner, am I not? A dutiful one.’ She blinked slowly. Smoothed her sleeve. ‘And it will be pretty.’

‘Well, I’m not going to leave a lady alone in her grief.’ Kassir offered her his arm. She didn’t really need this, so one had to admire the blunt eroticism of the gesture.

And sure enough, his fingers were stroking the inner side of her arm before they even reached the place of Madim’s eternal rest.

‘Pretty creatures, indeed. Do they like meat?’ He cocked his head, observing the wide glass of the tightly closed aquarium, full of sand and beetles. Their golden carapaces were shining rainbow-like in the room’s light. 

‘They like water. Any moisture. The meat contains it, so I suppose you may say they like it, too.’ A droid arrived at the other side of the aquarium, separated from the rest of the room by the glass wall, put the body into the hydraulic lift, and quickly backed away.

Too quickly, perhaps. Like he was showing some fear, some instinct for self-preservation. Cilla might have to reset him soon.

‘Are they really so dangerous?’ asked Kassir, observing how the droid checked the wall two times before pushing the button and allowing the body to be thrown into the sand-filled container.

‘Poisonous. Lethally. And it’s not an easy death, let me assure you.’

‘I see.’ Kassir fell silent for a moment, watching the swarm of beetles attacking – completely overtaking, devouring – the body; there was no sound in the room except for the rustle of the beetles and the breathing of two humans, Kassir’s becoming deeper with every passing second. ‘There’s no cure?’

‘They’re living in the outskirts of the galaxy. You know how much pharmaceutical companies care about victims from there.’

She didn’t care so much, not exactly – but Kassir did. His eyes shone with the usual hate and anger, anger and hate. Proud man from the periphery. Always a dangerous combination.

‘Death isn’t instantaneous, though. I think I’d manage to find a cure for myself, if it came to the worst. But I prefer to not test it.’

‘They aren’t eating him.’

‘They’re sucking the moisture. He will become a mummy, of sorts.’

‘Will you put that into your bedroom?’

‘If the next person sleeping there would like me to...’

His hand travelled down, to her waist. Cilla leaned into his touch, his grip, let him feel all the curves of her body, all the bones under her skin.

‘I wouldn’t mind. I mean, if I was him. Them.’ Kassir’s voice was rough and dry; the poor beetles wouldn’t find a drop of moisture in his voice.

Well, when the time came, it wouldn’t be the voice they would scan.

‘Is this why are you keeping them?’ He asked. ‘The insects. As a poison source? Or for scientific research?’

Cilla shook her head.

‘I have enough sources of poison... Although they might become useful one day. For science, yes, too. But I just wanted to make sure they wouldn’t become extinct, if any catastrophe befell their planet. I’d like them to live and thrive. See,’ she turned her head put a hand on his neck, lowered Kassir’s face, so she could whisper into his ear, ‘I owe them a favour.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For T., with their version of Hux' mother.


	11. A Little Bit of Luck (Passports, Jewellery, Smiles)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And this is for me, for I deserve all the nice things and niche ships I want. :D
> 
> Sillygoose helped me with this. <3 <3

‘You could have told me _sooner_!’ Carise is furious.

Hux catches her wrist before she does something stupid. ‘You’re standing before me. I take it we told you soon enough.’

‘You gave me a few hours to evacuate! I didn’t even have a flight plan or take off permits ready, I was scrambling to get them—’

‘I somehow doubt it was so hard for the Senator.’

‘You had no idea what idiotic lies I had to tell, and how I had to... prostrate myself before the airport personnel—’

‘Smile your way through, did you?’

‘I had to cancel all my plans and make excuses, and I’m sure they all saw through them, and, and— _Stars_ , what they thought about me!—they must have—’

‘Carise.’ Hux clears his throat. Tries to make his voice softer. She’s a politician, it’s part of her job to care about all that. ‘Carise, it doesn’t matter. They’re all dead. Whatever they thought or saw about you, they won’t be telling anyone. It’s doesn’t matter. They’re dead.’

She blinks. Her hands in his grasp go limp, so he puts his arms around her waist instead, to support her. She embraces him in return.

Hux sighs mentally. He needs to let her have these little sentimentalities. Carise’s a civilian, politician, and grew up as an aristocrat. And he’s known her for a long time, even if he doesn’t remember much from their childhood meetings on Arkanis. His father was close to her family. Some even say she was supposed to be his wife and indeed, if nothing changes, it might be a... fitting arrangement, one day.

It’s common knowledge. Which means it wouldn’t do to strike against her. But it also wouldn’t do to let her make mistakes. Guilt by association was the Order’s favourite type of guilt.

‘The organisation would appreciate if you save your grief for the Order’s victims.’

‘I know. I don’t... I’d never betray the Order! It’s just...’ She looks him straight in the face, searches for something. ‘It’s a lot of beings. A lot. Dead.’

‘And almost half of the Republic’s fleet gone.’

‘It’s not that I disagree with the Order’s decisions. I’d never. It’s just—a lot.’ She shakes her hand, like waking up from a bad dream. ‘All my best dresses and that ring with the... And you didn’t tell the rest. Our other agents.’

‘If they all started to escape, the Republic might have noticed. A few hours is enough to move part of the fleet and evacuate the government.’ He shrugs. ‘Our agents should have been prepared to die for the cause. They fulfilled their duty. Perhaps also their dreams. Sacrifice and be sacrificed, Carise. It’s only fair. Don’t pretend they were your firsts. We decided you and some others were assets valuable enough to be preserved. Aren’t you happy the Order values your services so highly?’

‘Well.’ She calms down a little, throws him a lopsided grin. Hux knows she rarely allows herself to show this more cynical part of her personality. Maybe she’s trying to manipulate him. Or maybe it’s sincere. ‘I’m certainly happy to be alive.’

‘Let’s hope you’re going to stay so. Just remember to be very careful aboard our ships. Stormtroopers, you can mostly ignore, but beware of the officers. It should be safer—the situation is more stable on Arkanis and I believe you know most of our agents, but—’

‘Armitage.’ Damn. She’s one of the few people who still calls him that. ‘I survived a decade in the New Republic’s Senate. I don’t need you to hold my hand through the Order’s schemes. The usual “trust no one” routine. I understand.’ She stands on her toes to whisper in his ear. ‘I understand well enough to check my dress for bugs once I’m out of this room. And I also understand that I’m one of the few surviving Republic Senators. I left Hosnian Prime because of family matters. Officially, nothing connects me with the First Order. That means I’ll be part of whatever ruling body they manage to scrape together from the survivors. Perhaps even part of the government with which you’ll have to negotiate. I think it makes me a fairly _valuable asset_.’ Her tongue slides behind his earlobe, almost like a kiss. Or a coincidence. Carise’s good at keeping these things ambiguous. ‘The Order has no shortage of the officers, but I might be _our_ sole Republic Senator.’

‘Are you threatening me?’ Hux probably should be less amused. But he was the one to remind the Administration Department to call Carise on Arkanis, and he’s quite sure she knows it. Besides, the whole family connection goes both ways. If he were to go, she’d quickly follow.

‘Have I ever?’

‘I distinctly remember one time in our childhood, when you tried to eat my toy soldiers and then, after I took them from you, started to cry and threatened to go to my father. You blackmailed me into bringing you sweets from the kitchen.’

‘I was, like, two?’

‘Almost two and half.’

‘If as a two-year-old you were forced to eat only greens and white meat without spices for health reasons, you’d do anything for some sweets, too.’

This time, Carise’s smile isn’t sardonic at all, and Hux exhales with relief. She can’t be seen so obviously shaken by the deaths of their enemies.

Right. Space carrot and stick. He tightens his grip on her waist. 

‘You also called me a bastard.’

‘I didn’t know what it meant!’

‘It’s all right. After all, we don’t need to worry about the misalliance issue anymore.’ He kisses her brow, noticing with a hint of satisfaction—mixed, surprisingly, with regret—how completely still she’s become. He bids her goodbye.

He has a lot of work to do. Carise’s right about her “Order’s remaining Senator” role. Even unconditional surrenders require bureaucratic agents to help things run smoothly. And this opens up very interesting possibilities, especially considering the Supreme Leader, and the Order’s other leaders in the future galaxy government, will without doubt be part of the negotiations. But Carise’s also the personal enemy of _the princess_ —and whatever “letting the past die” nonsense Ren’s spouting, Hux is sure this will influence his behaviour. It would be quite tragic and definitely wasteful if Carise was to survive the destruction of the whole planetary system only to die because of some man-child’s “mommy never loved me” tantrums. Tragic, wasteful, and no good for Hux’s plans at all.

But mostly, Hux decides, walking to the bridge (let’s remind Peavey he’s not the commander of this ship yet), well, _perhaps_ mostly, to have Carise die would just be sad.


End file.
